


Walking With a Ghost

by Duomi



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Psychics/Psionics, Canon Typical Violence, Character Death, Dreams, Emotional Manipulation, Ghosts, Hallucinations, Implied Cannibalism, M/M, Naughty Dreams, Necromancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 12:04:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duomi/pseuds/Duomi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham is a necromancer in a world that's barely coming to accept that the spirit world is a real thing. He teaches forensic ectomology at the F.B.I. academy until Jack Crawford needs his help with a case. Since he isn't one of Jack's steadiest ponies, Hannibal is called in to help.</p><p>The "character death" tag in this is atypical since death around Will isn't what it usually is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hear Me

**Author's Note:**

> Was inspired by the random idea of Will having items with spirits attached to them. Please don't let the character death tag scare you! Death is very relative in this. Hannibal shows up next chapter.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack finds Will and convinces him to go to a crime scene. Will is not happy with this development. Also, there's a cat.

The murders were fresh. Even without the crimson spattered on the walls and pooling on the floor Will would have recognized them, that buzzing jolt only the violently dead left behind.

Alone within a tumult of activity, Will stood, placidly considering the staircase. He closed his eyes and a pendulum swung in his mind, dismantling the mental forts he kept between himself and the places where the living weren't often welcome. His fingers curled around a length of old, frayed rope within his jacket.

When he opened his inner eyes the scene had changed. Gone were the police and the bodies; in their place, Mrs. Theresa Marlow stood before Will. Her husband's form was indistinct, here and then gone, hovering near the stairwell like static caught in the air.

Will focused on Mrs. Marlow, approaching her and speaking in an even tone. "Do you remember what happened here?" Winston heeled at his side, alert.

"Who are you?" Mrs. Marlow demanded. Her voice belied her calm, which was ironic considering she didn't actually have vocal cords anymore. "How did you get in?"

"I need you to concentrate," Will evaded. "A man broke into your house. Your husband was shot," he continued steadily. Mrs. Marlow flinched, her translucent skin blanching as she backed a step away. "You tried to contact the security company but you were in shock. How did the man convince you to give your password? What did he look like?"

"I don't—I can't..." Mrs. Marlow shook her head, again and again. Her image began to lose coherency.

Cursing himself, Will reached out, hesitated, and then plunged his hand into the spirit's chest. Gooseflesh broke out along his arms before he jerked free, shivering and shaking out his hand to clear the pins and needles. Winston had his ears back, disapproving, but Will ignored the dog's censure. He couldn't lose Mrs. Marlow yet.

Will could no longer see the wall through Mrs. Marlow and her skin had taken on a healthy tint that was a mockery of her living form. She stared at him in shock. "What did you just do? I feel..."

"I'm in a hurry," Will interrupted, clenching his hand and relieved when sensation returned quickly. "Do you remember what I asked?"

She did.

\--

 _Click_. Will lowered his remote, staring up at his students without meeting eyes. "Mrs. Marlow was a recent spirit, found within a day. Even so, she wouldn't normally have the strength to stick around. It was her killer's design, keeping her alive and aware of her impending death, that lead to his capture." Behind him, Mrs. Marlow's body filled the screen, blood fanned out around her head. "Why do you believe Mrs. Marlow needed to die? Tell me your design."

His students stirred as the lights came on. As usual, they murmured to each other, wondering if it was a day he'd accept questions. It wasn't. He'd weeded out the skeptics from his class within the first week, but even the sensitives were trying on his best days and most of his class was just the curious or hopeful, thinking maybe they could learn to do what he did if they put in the effort or took enough notes.

People didn't like to accept that some things just weren't possible for everyone. He thought it might have something to do with the American dream.

A prickle up Will's spine brought his attention around from the papers he'd been packing away and he frowned. The living weren't Will's specialty but even he could recognize this one. Jack Crawford had a hungry, forceful energy to him. Light sensitives would respond to it without thinking, trying to help him, to fit themselves into him and become part of something larger.

To Will it felt like arms pushing him somewhere he wouldn't want to go.

Jack was smiling and jovial as he shook Will's hand and introduced himself needlessly. Will didn't have the ability to forget people once he'd noticed them, and Jack had made a particular impression on Will.

Forensic ectomology was a very new, very difficult to quantify field. The skeptics had a hard time believing the results that talented sensitives could pull. It wasn't helped by the fact that outside of Will Graham those talents were touchy, unpredictable things. Difficult to analyze, impossible to reproduce.

Jack had been one of those trying to shut the field down before it could begin. He believed in the solidity of the world around him and what his own eyes could see. He was brilliant with people but Will had seen rocks with more sensitivity.

Now he was in Will's classroom—the only place in the country where you could take a course on forensic ectomology—and he was being friendly. Will's eyes made it as far as Jack's cheekbones but there was no mistaking that his instincts had been right.

Jack needed him.

\--

"You don't have any bodies?" Will clarified, walking with Jack through Quantico. Will hadn't invited Jack along but the larger man wasn't one to let a cold shoulder or hostile disinterest shake him off. Without really intending to Will had let Jack take the lead.

"No bodies, no parts of bodies, nothing that comes out of them," agreed Jack.

Will stopped. Jack kept going a pace, then gave him a look that indicated he'd better have a good reason for the delay.

"I need bodies, Jack," Will reminded. Weirder things had been said at the F.B.I. academy and he didn't get a stray glance from the stream of traffic. "I'm useless to you without them. Bodies or a fresh crime scene, and you don't have either."

"Well, maybe you can change that." Jack gave Will the same frustrating smile he'd seen on too many faces before. Faces that said things like, _You just need to be more friendly, try harder, stop being so nervous._ It put his metaphorical hackles up. "Why don't you have a look at what we've got, see what comes to you."

"I'd be wasting your time and mine."

Steel entered Jack's smile. "Let me be the judge."

Will's jaw clenched but Jack was already moving forward and Will found himself following again.

\--

A very reluctant Will Graham trailed after Jack into the Nichols' residence. He'd been an officer, but without his talents he had argued to no avail that Jack could find other people more suited.

He hesitated in the doorway and Jack picked up on it, giving him a significant look. Will frowned, shook his head, but found himself searching for shadows. There was someone else here.

Will ignored the parents in the dining room: Mr. Nichols, with his talk of trains, desperate for his daughter to be alive; Mrs. Nichols, tight as a spring but trying to face her fear. Both understandable reactions. Very human.

Will asked after the cat. Cats were useful; most of them were natural sensitives. The parents hadn't noticed it, so Will passed along the insight to Jack that they were in a crime scene. He climbed the stairs, still ignoring Mr. Nichols, who had apparently joined the list of people determined to discomfit Will by imposing on his time.

The cat paused its scratching at a bedroom door to catch Will's gaze with its own cold stare and flatten its ears. He thought it might smell Winston, or, well, sense him at least. He wasn't really sure how cats worked. He had the father hold the cat, which had the benefit of keeping Mr. Nichols away from him as well.

As Will approached the room a current went through him. It was fainter than somewhere a murder had happened but still distinct. He'd pulled his crime scene gloves on as he entered the hall and he opened the door now, gazing down at a much calmer death scene than he'd have expected. He remembered that he had a living person along too late and had to hold a shouting Mr. Nichols back and send him downstairs, sparing an exasperated thought for Jack. He'd warned the man he wasn't social.

Stepping into the room and centering himself, Will closed his eyes, touched the worn rope, and imagined the pendulum.

Elise Nichols sat on the edge of the bed, wearing the simple white nightgown she'd had at her death. Clothing was interesting in the afterlife, on this in-between plane. Maybe this outfit was one of the last things in her mind when she died, or she'd hoped death was just a bad dream.

The girl met his eyes, then looked down and smiled. Winston ran to her, placing his head on her lap and lolling his tongue when she petted his spotted fur. The mutt looked immensely solid beside the young woman; Will could see the fall-colored pattern of her covers beneath her.

He kept back, not risking an accidental touch. "Elise." The girl nodded, her attention on the dog. "I need to know what you remember."

Frowning, the girl pushed long, dark hair behind her shoulder. "I'm not sure. I was on the train—I remember a girl. I made it home. There was someone by my window..." Elise ruffled Winston's floppy ears. "I'm dead, aren't I?"

"Yes," Will agreed softly.

"Are mom and dad...?"

"They're fine. So is the cat," Will added, just to be thorough. "Your mother's strong. She'll get your father through it."

Elise didn't reply.

"Who was at the window?"

"A man. He was so normal looking... a little like dad, but sort of bald. He—"

A woman stepped past Will. With some of his mental forts down she crackled with a low-level energy, the sort a mild sensitive with a lively, bright personality would have. That much living spirit rubbed against him, broke his trance.

Staggering, Will winced, suddenly aware of how dark the room was and the blue-red lights flashing against the ceiling. "You're Will Graham, aren't you?" the woman asked. Her small smile was intelligent and playful. It was hard for him to focus on her words as she mentioned his credentials. He stood, blinking and disoriented, as she asked him about his fieldwork and why the F.B.I. had rejected him. Forensic ectomology was good enough to teach but too unorthodox for a real agent, even if he'd been able to pass the battery of personality tests.

Jack's return was a relief, which said something about how Will's day had gone. Popping an Aspirin, Will related what he'd learned from Elise.

"Well?" Jack demanded. "We could have gotten that much from a basic profile. He's the standard age and hunting within his race. A middle-aged balding white guy isn't much to go on."

"I was interrupted," Will asserted, still rubbing his temple.

The room was now full of people; apparently Jack had a trio of science techs under his wing, all fluttering around the body. Will's forts had been thrown up in a hurry and kept leaking. People were appearing and disappearing, and some of the snatches of conversation he was catching didn't relate to anything in this dimension. He clutched the rope in his pocket and felt Winston's reassuring presence leaning against his leg. Beverly looked over with a distracted frown like she could almost see him.

"So we clear out the room and you go back in." Jack's voice had the tone it got when he expected to be obeyed without argument, which was most of the time.

Will shook his head wearily, eyelids fluttering as his gaze darted and he broke into an anxious sweat. "No—not that easy. I have to be... if I can't be calm, it's... bad," Will hedged.

"How bad can it be?" Jack demanded. Will wasn't playing into the neat procedure he wanted and he was taking his frustration out on Will. He heard Winston growl and he dropped to a knee, touching the dog before standing and stumbling for the door. He needed fresh air, less live energy.

"Bad," Will responded shortly. He escaped the room, feeling the prickling stares of everyone behind him—everyone, including Elise.

\--

"No bodies, no parts of bodies..." - Jack, first episode of Hannibal. I tried to use as little actual dialogue as possible from the episode but I love that reply.

Title for the chapter is from the song of the same title by Imagine Dragons. Story title is from the song of the same name by Tegan and Sara. Also I'm dense and totally hadn't realized Elise Nichols was the girl it showed Abigail chatting up on the train. Damn I love this show.


	2. Lonely is the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will meets Hannibal and learns more about the Shrike.

Some dialogue is used again from the first episode, but as little as possible! Thank you everyone who took a chance and read the first chapter. ^_^ The kudos and comments are lovely!

\--

_Lonely is the night when you find yourself alone Your demons come to light and your mind is not your own_

Submerging his face in the sink, Will thought of blood and the too-distinct memory of rough hands around his throat as loving eyes stared down at him. _I'll honor every part of you._

He hadn't been near Elise since the night before but that didn't mean she had left him alone.

Will's mental forts took conscious effort to maintain. When he slept, they collapsed. Due to this he slept as little as he could, but after flying to Minnesota and back within twenty-four hours to see the Nichols' home his body had demanded rest.

He wasn't certain if he'd reached out to Elise or she to him but the effect had been the same. He had slept in a deluge of her memories and woke sweating, inundated with her life. He'd met her eyes and felt her slip away as her translucence became a soft light and she drifted from his bed. 

After, he had spent the better part of his night shaking in his cooling sweat, watching the glow of his space heater and sorting out the strands of his own life from Elise's. He wasn't entirely sure he'd gotten them all straight by morning, but he'd rung Jack up just the same. 

Jack had him sit down with a professional and Will's eye for detail got them a working sketch of their killer. He'd told Will he would kick the profile up the ladder and try to get an APB out.

Pulling out of the water with a gasp, Will rubbed his face wearily. The nightmares would be worth it. He'd _seen_ the killer.

The bathroom door swung open and Jack stalked in, shouting a hapless stranger out of the room. Jack was barely contained and filled with a volatile energy that set Will on the defensive, even if it wasn't directed at him. "We need to talk," he snarled. Sensing there was no other option, Will arched his eyebrows, already knowing he wouldn't like what was coming. "Apparently we can't afford to waste resources chasing rabbits a psychic came up with in a dream," Jack continued tersely. "No matter how accurate other details in your dream may have been in regard to Elise Nichols' life."

Will felt a heavy nausea sink into him with the words and he gritted his teeth at the constant stupidity of bureaucracies. "That shouldn't be surprising, I suppose," he replied, unconsciously matching Jack's tone. "Forensic ectomology's too much for most people to understand, and that's without muddying the waters with dreams." He didn't mention that Jack used to be one of those people. They both knew it and Jack wouldn't appreciate the reminder. "So, we're back to square one."

" _We_ are," Jack agreed, and his voice had suddenly turned placid, his gaze spearing into Will. Crawling with the sensation, Will studied Jack's shirt collar. "I've been ordered to disregard the description you've given me. No one I send out looking is to be given a copy."

"No sense sending anyone else door-to-door," Will reasoned out cautiously, picking up the offer between the lines. "I've done grunt police work before. If we narrow the field down I can go for you." He didn't want to. He really wasn't looking forward to socializing, trying to get information out of countless strangers while staying on edge looking around for Elise's killer. Then again, paranoia was nothing new to him and he'd be looking for that face everywhere anyway. 

Jack's shoulders relaxed marginally and his smile was sharp and satisfied. "I was hoping you would say that."

\--

Elise was on a metal table as Zeller, Price and Katz sifted through the cut the killer had started. 

Will stood stiffly, close to the group but at an oblique angle to the body. Her body was only so much meat now; she hadn't been strong enough to stay a second day. Will still had the uncomfortable sensation that he was looking at his own corpse.

His brooding was interrupted by Zeller mentioning that the liver had been taken out and then replaced. _I'll honor every part of you_. 

Will understood now. "She may have been bled," he rasped quietly, gaze now fixed on Elise's wounds. "And there was something wrong with the meat. That's why he put it back."

Zeller stared at him, and his look was not welcoming. "She had liver cancer." He spoke grudgingly; a skeptic. Will believed Zeller looked with cynicism at most of the world, but that didn't mean what he had against Will wasn't also personal. Will had dealt with enough Zellers in his life to have little patience with them, but right now he'd just confirmed Will's conclusion.

"He's eating them."

\--

They had the pipe thread Katz had found: a small clue, but crucial. Will survived that night on too much coffee, afraid his whiskey would bring the killer's face back. He had enough nightmares of his own without reliving Elise's. 

Escaping his home, he'd run with his pack through the fields in the moonlight, the dogs slipping through the shadows. He kept his hand on the old rope and his mind half in another world, Winston loping at his heels. The other dogs knew him; more open-minded than humans, they didn't hold it against the other canine that he happened to be ex-corporeal.

There were other spirits in the woods, small deaths brushing at his mind as animals made a living with a mouthful of death. He was centered here, confident in himself, and he accepted the deaths as natural.

It was hard to return home with the daylight. He rebuilt his forts and cleaned his dogs. He took a shower, dressed, reminded himself he was human and had human responsbilities. Finishing too early, he stared at the clock for half an hour until it was time to grab enough caffeine to push him through the rest of the morning and go to Jack's summons.

He was tense and agitated and he snapped at Jack when the other man told him to come to the room in Quantico where Will had been introduced to the images of the eight dead girls. Will often felt like this when he'd let too many forts down on purpose. In sleep his mind kept busy, but when he was awake he remembered what it felt like to relax. 

The sleep-deprivation didn't help. Shaking the irritation off, Will had his hand on the door before his breath caught and his eyes unfocused. Even with his mental barriers up the energy in the room hit him like static electricity. The hairs on his arm raised and he cursed quietly as a small arc of light flashed off his finger when it touched the metal of the handle. He didn't know what was inside, but he had one hand on the rope in his pocket and his mind on the nearest exits.

When the door swung open the scene was anti-climatic. Jack stood stolidly beside an unassuming, angular European. The new man was entirely in shades of taupe, his outfit as nonthreatening as possible. "Who are you?"

With an air of faint amusement, the taupe gentleman held out a hand. "Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Jack requested my help with a profile."

Will stared hard at the hand, finding it difficult to breathe or think around the crackle in the room. He closed his eyes, focused, and the forts got stronger. He imagined a castle around himself, thick walls of stone. The rest of the energy he took in rather than fight, letting it pass around him when it wanted to fill the space that he was taking. 

It was better when he opened his eyes. There was still a hum like he was standing too close to a live electric fence, but he could function. He hesitated, then took the hand in a brief, firm clasp, rubbing his hands on his pants unthinkingly as he took a chair at Jack's desk. "Will Graham. He requested my help as well," he added, trying not to sound petulant. Hannibal was alive in a way he'd never known. It was hard not to hold it against him.

"Always good to be helpful," Hannibal vollied glibly, taking the seat to Will's left. Will glanced at him and got as far as his sharp cheekbones before retreating. "Not fond of eye contact, are you?"

"Not particularly." Wanting to avoid small talk about himself, Will frowned at Hannibal's vest. "What exactly do you do?"

Hannibal knew what he was asking, and smiled. "I have some talent with empathy; enough to help with my work as a psychiatrist."

Will's eyes skittered up in surprise. He caught Hannibal's gaze and was kept there for a moment, staring into the dark. He was lying, or at least avoiding the truth. No one with that much power would be so limited.

It wasn't Will's life. If Hannibal wanted Jack to think he was a mostly normal human, Will would keep quiet. He could understand wanting to be unnoticed. Breaking the eye contact, he groped awkwardly for a way to smooth over his silence, settling on a sip of coffee. 

Hannibal spoke, making it seem there had been no silence in the first place. "Your mind has very strong barriers."

"I build forts," Will agreed.

"Not for the living," Hannibal continued. Will tensed, setting the cup slowly down as he lifted his eyes to Hannibal's. "Those forts are all that come between you and the dead. What you are is more than a mere ectomologist; closer to a pure empath with a particular affinity for the dead. Quite similar to a necromancer."

Will's fear reacted as anger. "Whose profile are you working on?" He turned that anger on Jack. "Whose profile is he working on? Necromancers are a myth," he bit out. "Keep your tabloid headline analysis to yourself and leave me out of it." Standing, he took his coat and stalked to the door. "If you'll excuse me, I'm late for class. I'm giving a lecture on actual ectomology, not fairytales." He didn't slam the door as he left.

\--

Cassie Boyle was mounted with macabre beauty on the horns of a beheaded stag. Another sleepless night left Will only technically conscious, and at first he blamed perpetual exhaustion on the fact that he didn't see the body until Zeller scared the crows away. He startled, blinking. Tried to concentrate as Jack explained about the stolen stag head and Price told him about shrikes.

Something was wrong. Well, something usually was with Will, but right now the problems were outside of himself. The details were all dischordant with everything he knew about the killer. There had been no love in this murderer's eyes when Cassie had been butchered. The fact that there was a body at all to find was another huge tipoff. 

Those were all striking in contrast, but they were the least of Will's worries. Cautiously, he dropped into a delicate half-trance, listening to the world around him but making his forts transparent. It took all the concentration he had left, and when he succeeded he sensed Winston whining, pressing half into his leg.

When Will returned to himself he was kneeling by the body, shaking. He scrabbled away from it with no grace and stood, unable to look away. "This isn't right."

"It's a murder; you seen many of those you'd describe as 'right'?" Zeller inquired sardonically.

Jack silenced him with a look. "What did you see?"

"It's what I didn't see that bothers me. There's nothing here," Will replied, unable to even work up annoyance with Zeller.

"This is a fresh crime scene," Jack countered, using his trying-to-be-patient voice. It wasn't one of his strengths. "You told me you needed a body; well, one appears to have been provided for you."

Will was shaking his head. "You're not hearing me. She isn't here. Even if she'd passed on, there should be something—some residual trace of energy. An echo. This looks like Cassie Boyle, but it's just a hollow egg. Someone poked a hole in her and sucked the rest out."

"The shrike," Jack offered. He was following Will, but he didn't really get the horror of it.

"Worse. The shrike has a human motive. He'll have a daughter who fits the profile of the girls; she's leaving home. He can't stand for her to leave. Whatever did this... they didn't just take her organs. They ate everything that made her who she was."

"Are you saying whoever did this ate her—what, her soul?" Price asked, caught between revulsion and interest. "What could do that?"

"I have no idea. Call Dr. Lecter, maybe, if he's such an expert." Will was already stumbling away, unable to stand being near the atrocity that was Cassie's corpse. He needed whiskey to keep the nightmares away. If he was lucky, he could drink enough to put a permanent scar on his memory and erase the whole day.

\--

Chapter title is from the song by Billy Squier. I love Zeller and Price, Will just currently does not (at least with Zeller). Thank you for all of the kudos, comments and reads!


	3. Revolver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal meet the Minnesota Shrike.

Chapter 3: Revolver

_I'm holding on, cause you're my revolver  
And I dreamed of an ending, in a violent way._

Cassie Boyle's hollow corpse followed Will, appearing behind his eyes whenever he blinked. 

The FBI had gotten him a room at a motel in Duluth. Drinking in his room with only his nightmares and the whiskey to keep him company wasn't the high point of his life, but he'd done worse.

A few fingers into the bottle he'd finally slowed his mind down enough to handle his horror at what he'd seen. He kept at his drinking methodically, only setting the bottle aside when it required intense concentration to do so without dropping it onto the floor instead. 

He hauled himself off the stiff mattress, out of his clothes and into the shower, standing under a spray just this side of scalding. When his muscles were melting under the heat his mind began to wander. 

A forest opened around him. He looked into a moonlit clearing and saw a feathered stag, its life humming in the air. When the beast saw him it lowered its head, prepared to charge. 

A blur of motion pulled free from Will to stand between them, hackles raised, and Winston growled in warning at the stag. The stag lifted his head and the danger turned to curiosity.

Will caught himself against a slick wall and shook his head to clear it. Rueful at falling asleep while standing in a shower, he turned off the water and ran a towel over his reddened skin.

He pulled on boxers and a night shirt and fell into the unfamiliar bed, thinking muzzily about the man in the tan jacket Jack had made him meet two days before. The mystery of the strange psychiatrist was safer than allowing his thoughts to stray anywhere near Cassie Boyle.

As his memories of the peculiar energy that surrounded Hannibal filled him, Will felt as though his bed were tilting. Exhaustion pulled down his forts and dragged him into unconsciousness.

\--

Jack's office was the same as Will remembered it, but Jack was nowhere to be seen. Hannibal, however, was; he was approaching from only a few feet away, crowding into Will's personal space with interest lighting his amber eyes.

Will had time to realize this must be a dream before Hannibal's lips closed over his and surprise drove Will's rational mind away. The electricity of the man made it hard to breathe; it made him worry that the air would erupt into sparks in his lungs. Hannibal's hands were on him with a fire all their own and the icy darkness in Will's mind reached out in response.

The desk gave way and Hannibal pressed Will into the fragrant bed of needles and leaves that made the forest floor and Will lost track of anything but Hannibal.

\--

A knock on the door startled Will awake. Disoriented and hungover, he staggered up and was almost to the motel door before he registered the mess he'd made of his boxers. Embarrassment flooded him and he called out that he needed a moment.

He switched out his night clothes for clean ones after a quick once-over with a damp washcloth and pulled open the door, squinting out at the painfully bright morning. Meeting Hannibal's eyes instead of Jack's, remembered lust kicked Will in the stomach and his mind panicked. He didn't have the social skills needed to smoothly handle a surprise meeting with a stranger who'd just starred in his wet dream.

Seeking help, he darted his eyes around but didn't see anyone else. "Where's Crawford?" he demanded. When all else failed he tended toward defensive unpleasantness.

Hannibal watched Will with amusement subtle but plain on his features. "Deposed in court, I'm afraid. The adventure will be yours and mine today. Do you mind?" he inquired, lifting ceramic dishes in a clear question of invitation.

Rubbing his arms and still feeling the other man's aura biting along his skin, Will shrugged sharply and retreated into the room. His stomach turned at the idea of food but after his liquid dinner it was probably a good idea.

Hannibal closed the door behind himself and sniffed the air delicately. Will shot the man's lapel a challenging frown, daring Hannibal to comment on the musky closeness of the air. 

Refraining, Hannibal opened the dishes and set them on the room's small table near the window. "Did you sleep well?"

The bland words sped Will's heart as he wondered if Hannibal could read thoughts. With Will's luck it seemed entirely possible. "Why do you ask?"

"God forbid we be friendly," Hannibal replied, a wisp of sardonic rebuke in his voice. 

"Let's keep it professional."

Will could feel Hannibal studying him before the other man continued mildly. "The whiskey by your bed appears to have been indulged in quite recently. Professionally, I feel the need to ask if you are prepared for work."

Will darted his gaze to the offending bottle and hesitated. He shoulders slumped as he dropped into the chair across from Hannibal with a sigh. "It isn't what it seems like. The whiskey dulls the edges," he admitted.

"Do your gifts cut you?" Hannibal inquired after a moment, accepting the reply as an apology and waiting for Will to take the first bite.

"Only when I slip," Will replied glibly.

"Did you slip last night?"

Staring at his fork, Will nudged at the food listlessly, slowly shook his head. "It was Cassie. Cassie Boyle, the body we found—a copycat got to her."

"What makes you so certain that it was a copycat?" Hannibal's attention was too focused on Will; the man's energy was almost an audible thrum in his ears despite his forts. Against his efforts, he kept finding his gaze drawn to the older man, edging closer to eye contact. 

Shivering under the attention like a horse with a fly, Will shook his head again. "A few things. The Shrike is efficient, not needlessly cruel. His face... he loves these girls, even if it's not how we'd usually define it," Will added, knowing that his tendency to speak too much from a killer's point of view made most people uneasy if he didn't temper his words. "Cassie was practically gift-wrapped. Whoever killed her took her life and, for lack of a better word, her soul. Then he left her exposed in a field."

"And this cut you more than the Shrike's victim," Hannibal mused.

"I was—I know how Elise Nichols died. The man was gentle; as gentle as he could be given that he strangled her. She still moved on to wherever the dead go. Cassie will never have that chance. Whatever was animating her is gone."

"Perhaps her energy has gone to a better place."

"Maybe." Furrowing his eyebrows, Will hunched over his food, finally taking a bite. His reluctance vanished at the savory burst of flavor, the slight spice to the sausage complementing the eggs perfectly. "This is delicious, thank you."

"So you can be friendly after all," Hannibal observed, a miniscule smile at the corners of his mouth. "I was beginning to think today would be quite unpleasant."

The chastisement irked Will. "Don't think you've won me over yet. I don't even find you that interesting." 

Hannibal paused for only an instant, watching Will intently. "That's the first lie you've told me," he announced, tone gently reprimanding. "I would prefer it not become a habit."

Will snorted at the ego of that. "What makes you think I'm lying?"

"For one thing, your emotions," Hannibal responded evenly. He picked his fork up and took a nonchalant bite while realization and horror swept through Will, the bite he'd eaten sitting like lead in his stomach. "Your own talents may lie with the dead, but I am most adept with the living. You have looked at me with interest, anxiety and attraction, but not once with boredom." 

Will's thoughts had frozen in mortification but that didn't stop his tongue. "Some talent with empathy?" he mocked. "You told the first lie."

"Not directed at you," Hannibal countered. "Jack feels most comfortable with that which he can understand and control. It is useful to keep him believing that both of these things are true with myself."

"He seems comfortable enough with me."

"And why do you believe that is?" 

Will twitched a smile, watching Hannibal in the sharp morning light. "Why don't you tell me?"

Keeping Will's gaze, Hannibal allowed his smile to widen. "Jack sees you as a Ouija board; a useful tool for talking to the dead when in the right hands."

Laughing at that, Will leaned back in his chair, smiling and drawing one finger under his lips playfully. Hannibal's calm acceptance of his attraction helped to put him at ease and there was some indefinable quality to the other man that made him not want to look away. "How do you see me?"

Hannibal's eyes held his gaze steadily until Will's smile faltered. "I see you as the guardian of the crossroads who stands at the gates of death," he asserted calmly. Will stared at Hannibal in uneasy silence as the other man placidly returned to his food.

\--

Will hadn't put much stock into having a psychiatrist along on a police search, but if Hannibal hadn't yet contributed anything to Will's search for the Minnesota Shrike, he at least hadn't gotten in the way. They had both tacitly avoided introducing the doctor when they'd started looking through files; according to procedure Will should have had a local officer along with them, but Jack was skirting his orders to have Will in the field at all and neither of them wanted the trouble that would come with assigning an unknown officer to assist Will.

Hannibal was an authority within the field of psychology in relation to sensitives. His presence would lend Will credence if they were called in as experts on the case later, and in the meantime Will made use of another set of hands and eyes for what he predicted to be a tedious day sifting through files.

Unexpectedly, Will stumbled across an anomoly shortly into their first construction site. The lack of an address stood out to his mind not because of any supernatural powers but simply because it was unusual. Unable to let it rest, he decided to swing by and check out the Hobbs residence on he and Hannibal's way to the next construction site.

Will parked, popped an Aspirin and stepped out into the warm fall day. He didn't bother with the car locks, not expecting to be here long. As he approached the neatly maintained house his mind was on the birds in the trees around them and the warmth of the sun, thinking he'd rather be out on his boat catching dinner.

The door opening drew his attention back to the present and he could only stare as the man from Elise's memories appeared in the doorway, a struggling woman in his grasp. Garrett Jacob Hobbs met Will's eyes once and then hurriedly, as though he'd forgotten something more important, he cut his wife's throat and tossed her onto the deck before bolting back inside. 

The intertia holding Will broke and he ran to the fallen woman, his untrained hands twitching in the air helplessly and finally pressing to her throat, trying to close the wound or put the blood back into it. His thoughts were panicked birds in the cage of his mind.

Louise Hobbs gasped soundlessly, clutching at Will, and was gone in the next instant.

For all his years in Homicide, Will had never held a person as they died. Now he couldn't let go. The force of Louise's life rushed into Will and his forts buckled and fell under the pressure.

Despite her violent death, she wasn't angry. She had been caught too off guard for anger. She was surprise, confusion, terror for herself and her child. Her thoughts blended with Will's and she saw her husband run inside after dropping her. Even as her spirit left him he rose and turned, their purposes the same: protect Abigail.

His hands were slick with blood and fumbled for his Glock 22, nearly dropping it. The rush of Louise's death and the collapse of his walls had left him reeling like a drunk and he stumbled into the house. Danger had his senses sharp—all of his senses—and he ignored the stale scent of old death that gathered around some of the furniture in the house, honing in on the kitchen like a bloodhound. 

Garrett Jacob Hobbs holding his daughter with a knife to her throat made Will hesitate another instant, and it was all Hobbs needed to flash the knife across the unguarded skin. She dropped and Will's shot was clear. Without pause for thought he unloaded most of his clip into the man, the gun barking in his hands and the recoil almost in time to the jerks of Hobb's body as the bullets tore through it.

When he was certain Hobbs wouldn't move again Will holstered his gun on pure muscle memory and lurched to his knees at Abigail's side, shaking too badly to help and sick with panic at the idea that he was about to see the girl die just as her mother had. He glanced over to see Hobbs watching him and hissing, _"See?"_

And suddenly Hannibal was there, slipping silently alongside Will, the energy of the man raw against Will's mind but its familiarity and strength as welcome as a fire. He relinquished his ineffectual hold on Abigail with core-deep relief, still twitching with his own adrenaline. He realized that Winston had been with him since he entered the house, but only from the deep growl coming from the canine now. 

Instinct pulled Will's head around, but there had been no time to center himself or prepare his mind. Abigail and Hannibal were gone, but Garrett Jacob Hobbs stood before Will. He met Will's eyes again and a quick realization lit them.

Will rolled back and brought up his hands as Winston lunged for Hobbs. The man had a hunter's training; he twisted away from Winston's teeth and poured into Will like dye into water. 

Gritting his teeth as icy cold suffused him, Will struggled for breath with lungs that felt frozen. Garrett Jacob Hobbs' life assaulted him in flashes: a childhood that was his but wasn't, with a rifle instead of a fishing rod; parents who were equally distant; meeting Louise and winning her with his charm, never letting her see the darkness growing in the shadows of his mind like a fungus. Holding Abigail for the first time, red-faced and so small in his rough hands, and knowing he could do anything for her but let her go.

He remembered teaching her to hunt as Garrett's father had taught him, and he knew pride and release when she helped him lure out his kills, all so much like her. He had never loved anyone so much.

 _Will_ had never loved anyone so much. As the cold stabbed numbingly into him, he clung to that. Will Graham had always been isolated, always been held at arms' length from the rest of humanity. Usually that knowledge pulled like an old scar, but it saved him now.

Piece by stubborn, painful piece, Will gathered his mind back to himself. He fought memories of Abigail with long nights in the forest with his dogs, with fingers of whiskey on his front porch and dozing in the sun until a fish nibbled his line.

\--

With a gasp and a cough, Will came back to himself. His skin throbbed dully like limbs waking after they'd fallen asleep and if he hadn't already been leaning against a car he'd have fallen.

Jerking his head up, he stared around, lost and terrified but ready to fight if he had to. He took stock of his surroundings: it was still the same warm, bright day. He was out in the driveway, and the lights and bustle were familiar to a crime scene. He was seeing the world through drops of crimson and his hands were wet with drying blood. Only the fact that he wasn't in handcuffs in the back of a police car reassured him.

Energy crept along his skin again and he bit his tongue to keep from crying out at the new assault. He looked up instinctively to track Hannibal's appearance at the porch, and his eyes watched dully as the man walked with perfect poise beside Abigail in her stretcher. Hannibal didn't glance once at Will as he stepped into the ambulance and the doors closed.

\--

Alana had taken over his classes without question; he didn't know her well, but she had worked with sensitives before and he thought his students might benefit from her more personable brand of teaching.

In truth, the delay that contacting Alana and finishing his questioning with the police took was what he needed most. Hospitals weren't a good place for someone like Will. Damaged as the altercation at the Hobbs' place had left him, he took that time to patch the holes in his forts as well as he could before he went to Abigail.

His intention was to check on her and to sort out his thoughts. He would call Jack once he'd made sure she was still alive and tell him all he'd learned about her.

Hannibal's aura met him at the door to her room and Will paused, considered his options, and entered quietly. 

Hannibal asleep in a chair and holding Abigail's hand wasn't what Will had expected, but it was reassuring. Will's gaze traveled past the joined hands and up along to Abigail, and he stood for a time watching her and knowing her more than he had any right to.

After several minutes of this he was aware that he had come to a decision. He should tell Jack, but more than the murdered young women he kept seeing the comatose girl in the bed as Hobbs had remembered her. He also couldn't ignore the desperate, protective urge that the flickering shade of Louise Hobbs had impressed upon him with her last thoughts. That borrowed love wouldn't let him leave and take out his cell phone.

Instead, Will found himself wearily settling into the chair across the hospital bed from Hannibal. He stretched out his legs and closed his eyes, the close heat of Hannibal's presence reminiscent enough of a fireplace to ease some of his tension as he made himself face the decision he had made.

Without thought, his hand drifted to the grip of his gun and rested there. A sense of love and satisfaction rose in him and he smiled as he drifted into an easy sleep.

\--

The guardian at the gates that I'm thinking of is Papa Legba, common to Haitian Vodoun but also featuring in Lousiana Voodoo. Will isn't actually an incarnation of Papa Legba, but it's a fun comparison! They both like dogs, too.

Also, from what I can figure out the gun Will uses in the series is a Glock 22, which would be standard for the FBI right now. In the book he gave up on .38s after they didn't take down Hobbs but in the series it seemed like Will kept with it but got better at aiming.

Chapter title is from the song by Isobel Campbell and Mark Lanegan.


	4. Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrett Jacob Hobbs makes a repeat appearance and Will has a chat with Hannibal.

Chapter 4: Bones  
 __

You can't hide from your demons, feel them all lurking around You're running scared 'cause you know they're out there, they're waiting for the sun to go down

"You haven't been sleeping."

Will's head jerked up and away from the window in Jack's car. Blinking blearily, he looked left.

Garrett Jacob Hobbs was sitting in the driver's seat of the parked rental car, dappled in sunlight that filtered through him and onto the seat. He appeared translucent but alert, dressed in the same blue-striped shirt and jeans he'd worn when Will had killed him a few days before.

Heart thudding, Will scrambled to sit up, glancing around and only relaxing when he saw Winston sprawled on the back seat. The dog lifted his head from his paws and gave a single slow wag of his tail when Will met his eyes.

Hobbs wasn't here to attack him, then. Returning his attention to the human ghost, he dragged a hand across his forehead to catch the sweat. "What?"

"I said you haven't been sleeping. For close to three days now; is that normal for you? Maybe you should look into a doctor. Or a change of diet," Hobbs mused. His hands roamed over the steering wheel while he spoke, voice soft and deceptively average.

"Maybe I should start eating young women, like you did?"

"That wasn't the change in diet I meant. I've seen your place. You need to eat more often, and more vegetables. Less whiskey."

Will took off his glasses with a hand still shaking from adrenaline, a slightly manic laugh escaping him. "This conversation is beyond bizarre. You aren't even here. You can't be, it's been too long."

"Maybe I like you," Garrett offered sardonically. "You have been looking after Abbi."

Tension crept up along Will's neck and he replaced his glasses to stare at the dead man. "How have you been following me?"

Garrett arched his eyebrows, staring at Will as Will instinctively looked at the rim of his own glasses instead. "How does he follow you?" Garrett inquired, nodding toward Winston.

"That—that's different. You can't... he's a dog. It's different with humans," Will protested, hearing the note of desperation in his voice.

"Maybe it isn't." Reaching into the back seat, Garrett scratched Winston's ear, the dog's mottled fur visible through his hand. "Maybe we're more alike than you think."

\--

A sharp rap on the window startled Will awake and his heart was in his throat for the second time in a few minutes. His eyes darted around but the car was empty now.

Jack's imperious form leaned over his door and Will stared up at Garrett Jacob Hobbs' cabin, familiar from his glimpses into the man's life.

He dropped his hand from his gun and stepped out into the fall air, noting a lack of any nearby birdsong. The officers roaming through the woods searching for clues had driven all but the most inquisitive creatures into hiding. Shutting his door, Will fell into step behind Jack, and the silence between them was even worse than the silence in the woods.

Jack was sharp; he suspected that Will was hiding something from him. Will had continued to protect Abigail, of course, but on top of that he had downplayed the events in Hobbs' home, not telling anyone what had happened after he'd killed the man. 

Hobbs was right about Will's lack of sleep. His nap in Jack's car had been the first rest Will had had since Hannibal had left Abigail's hospital room and taken his buzzing, comforting energy with him. Alone, Will hadn't felt safe with the drop in his shields; honestly, he should never have rested in the hospital at all. He was lucky he hadn't woken surrounded by the ghosts of the recently dead crowding around him. His stay in the hospital after he'd been stabbed in homicide had been the low point of his life for several reasons.

Now he just had to worry about whether or not he was losing his mind. Hobbs had been dead for three days. He shouldn't have the energy to manifest at all, let alone hold full conversations.

There were no manuals for what Will did. Throughout his life he'd picked things up through trial and error, trying his best to manage the damage that his abilities could cause him. He had found a way to integrate himself into the system so that he could be seen as useful rather than frightening. To that end, he had spent most of his adult life working to make forensic ectomology a reality, to give himself a safety net. If word got out that he could keep the souls of the dead like pets, well.

He didn't think there'd be a modern witch hunt, but it didn't bode well for his comfort, either.

\--

Hobbs' cabin was a bust. Jack had dragged Will along, hoping for his magic eight ball to give him a new answer, but aside from the red hair he'd found the only thing the trip showed Will was that Jack suspected Abigail of helping her father to hunt.

Will couldn't tell him that she'd only been the lure and helped with some of the butchering. He wasn't entirely comfortable admitting it to himself and it would still place her as an accessory to murder. 

Instead Will kept his silence, taking up his first class since he'd killed Hobbs and harshly quelling his students' attempts to congratulate him. He showed slides of the crime scene and spoke around what had happened as much as possible.

Jack and Alana cornered him as his students left. Despite his protests, Will was corraled into an official meeting with Hannibal. Apparently, he hadn't been more short-tempered and distracted than usual, making Alana worry about his health and Jack concerned that his Ouija board might not be working.

\--

Anxious and expecting the worst from the meeting, Will tossed his tie into his passenger seat and sat for a moment in his car, gathering his thoughts and building up his shields. He hadn't been able to explain the affect the man's energy had on him to Jack, unwilling to risk giving Hannibal's secret away. 

Not entirely convinced that he was up to this, Will forced himself from the relative safety of his vehicle. Adjusting his glasses, he knocked on Hannibal's office door and was let in.

He catalogued the room quickly, noting the imposing size, the large windows and expensive decor. Without a doubt Hannibal's usual services would be laughably out of Will's price range. He assumed Hannibal was only taking Will's case as a favor to Jack or, more likely, curiosity about dealing with Will's unusual abilities.

Glancing at the chairs in the room only in passing, Will nodded to Hannibal curtly before ascending to the loft, relaxing marginally with the height and the closer atmosphere provided by the books. In other circumstances he could see spending an evening reading through the doctor's collection, but as it was he was still all too aware of Hannibal's presence. It was distracting, drawing Will's gaze whenever he lost focus.

Anxiety thrummed through Will in an aggravating counterpoint to Hannibal's tempting energy.

A rustle of paper caught Will's attention and he blinked down at Hannibal to see the doctor holding the investigator's freshly-signed release form. "There. Now the formalities are out of the way," Hannibal announced, his accent making the words oddly precise. "We may simply converse."

Not believing what had just happened, Will had to confirm that the renowned psychiatrist had really just cleared him to return to the field before he'd said more than a word to the other man. It was a brilliant tactic, implying that Hannibal was on Will's side and wished to speak with him outside of the pressure of getting Will to respond correctly to the questions asked. It was also, strictly speaking, probably not ethical.

Smiling in spite of himself, Will shook his head at the other man's boldness and resumed his slow pacing along the loft's railing. "Tricky, doctor. I appreciate the gesture, but are you sure it's a good idea?"

Hannibal regarded Will with apparent complacency. Will had the odd sensation of a lion who'd eaten to satience watching a gazelle. "Has anything happened to make you doubt my assessment?" 

_Oh, nothing much, just the dead man in Jack's car._ Will's smile turned to a baring of teeth and he shrugged, gaze wandering. "I haven't been sleeping well."

"Not alarming in itself. You have recently suffered a traumatic experience; perfectly natural to suffer some unrest." Will scoffed at Hannibal's neatly packaged assessment before the doctor's next words brought his head sharply around again. "Particularly when one has the added burden of a surrogate daughter."

Will thought to protest or ask Hannibal where he'd gotten his information, but the first would have been a lie and the second inane. Jack had no doubt divulged where Will had been spending his evenings when he'd asked for Hannibal's assistance with fixing his wayward ectomancer.

They briefly discussed responsibility and their own mutual concern for the young woman who remained in a coma. The hospital Abigail had been taken to was in Baltimore; given that her estate was in contest, Will suspected that it was Hannibal who was funding her stay there. The thought touched him more than he would have expected, though he regretted that he couldn't afford her care himself.

"Jack thinks Abigail was helping Hobbs," Will found himself admitting.

"And what do you think?"

Will leaned on the railing, not quite meeting Hannibal's eyes. "Abigail didn't kill those girls."

"That does not mean she wasn't complicit in the acts," Hannibal pointed out, voice reasonable.

Will only realized he'd begun to relax in Hannibal's presence when the tension returned to him suddenly. Hannibal's head lifted slightly as though he'd smelled the increase in Will's anxiety as much as he'd sensed it. Cursing himself mentally for talking about Abigail at all around an empath, let alone one connected to the FBI, Will found himself replying curtly and gripping the railing he'd leaned against so casually. "With all due respect, doctor, you don't know her."

"Abigail is in a coma, Will," Hannibal pointed out, and the gentle words felt ruthless. Will's fingers twitched on the railing and he had a moment of doubled sensation as though he were falling and standing at the same time. "You have never spoken with her."

Will's defensive anger and protectiveness drained from him, leaving him weary and momentarily hollow. He wavered on the verge of giving Abigail's secret up, passing the burden onto Hannibal. Sharing it with him. 

The urge passed. Pushing away from the railing, Will steered their conversation to safer topics for the remainder of his hour. Abigail might not be his daughter but he couldn't shake the responsibility he felt for her. 

He also couldn't shake the feeling that Hobbs was still here, somewhere, keeping an eye on him.

\--

Sorry this chapter was so short! The next will be longer, holidays are just a hard time to write in for me. Hobbs will be sticking around, too, so the plot will start changing starting with the next few chapters. Happy new year everyone!  
Chapter title is Bones by Little Big Town


	5. Devil's Resting Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal and Will talk shop and Will gets to play in a mushroom garden.

So sorry this took a while! I kept not setting aside time to actually write. Trying to get back on track for the other fic too. After this chapter the story gets on its own more.

\--  
 _I've been with the devil in the devil's resting place_

 

Whatever Will had imagined when Beverly asked him what he knew about gardening, this wasn't it.

Standing above the graves that had only minutes before contained bodies and fungi in a well-maintained row, he had to wonder again at the choices in his life that had led him to this place. Surely in some alternate universe there was a happier Will Graham, working in a coffee shop, only seeing the dead when there was a car accident or a heart-attack. He could have met Hannibal in a traditional way, said something wry to make the man laugh when he'd visited Will's shop. There could have been flirting and discussions that weren't about Will's assorted psychoses. Normal, boring, _wonderful_ conversations.

His sleep-deprived daydream was cut short by Jack's rough voice. "Will?"

_Right. Reality calls._ Taking a deep breath, he dragged his tired mind into focus and nodded to let Jack know he was back. "I'm here."

His eyes drifted over the mushroom garden as the science team tossed information to him. Given the quick decomposition of the bodies it was hoped that a few had been recent enough to leave something Will could work with. 

This hadn't been a scene of violence. He could feel the deaths under his feet and all around, but they were infused with the networked lives of the mushrooms. Before he'd given his forts the go-ahead they were already sloughing away, his trance falling over him as he approached the bodies without any intention but a desire to be nearer to the peace before him. 

It was different than anything he'd experienced before. The older graves were empty of afterlife but the second most recent had a shade above it, twisting like a sheet on a clothesline in a gentle breeze. He tried to speak to it but the ghost was disoriented, only able to focus on him briefly. The answers were unhelpful; it didn't remember who had taken it, didn't even know it had been taken. 

No longer optimistic, Will eyed the freshest grave. It had no spirit above it but he could see the edge of a figure within. Winston didn't appear concerned, sniffing at the other spirit like he was thinking about marking it. Glancing at the canine, Will approached the grave cautiously. Feet came into view. Arms. The face—

Will started, staring down into the eyes of Garrett Jacob Hobbs. He took a step back before he could stop himself and Garrett chuckled, sitting up in the grave and resting his arms casually on his knees. "You didn't take my advice."

Swallowing a curse, Will shook his head in irritation. "Yeah. You telling me to sleep is what's kept me up the last two nights."

"You don't trust me to look out for you?" Hobbs seemed amused.

"No offense," Will replied, making sure to lay the sarcasm on as thickly as he could. "I just make it a general rule not to take the advice of psychopaths, no matter how 'sensitive' they are."

Now Hobbs was _definitely_ amused. Will didn't think he'd been all that funny. "Of course. You couldn't have that." He glanced without much interest at the formerly comatose spirit in the grave beside him, then dropped his gaze. "You should be careful. This one's not dead yet."

Will frowned and knelt down, inspecting the open grave like there might be someone else hiding inside. "Of course he is. Half of his face fell off." Still, there should be a ghost. A ghost that wasn't Garrett Jacob Hobbs, that was.

"Suit yourself," Hobbs replied serenely. He smiled and something grabbed Will's wrist. 

The spirit world was ripped away from him again as the fungus-covered not-so-dead-after-all body lurched into Will, lipless jaw working for air in a living personification of the nightmares Will was certain he'd be having later.

\--

Will placed the release form onto Hannibal's desk with precise force. "This may have been premature."

Adjusting his suit jacket, Hannibal studied Will with interest. This close, Will's effort was going toward ignoring the heated crackle of the other man's energy. He was absolutely not trying to decide if the energy might rub off on him if he brushed up against Hannibal. That would have been unprofessional and ridiculous. 

"What did you see?"

The question was a relief, giving Will a focus aside from Hannibal himself. "It isn't a _what_. I saw—I've been _seeing_ Garrett Jacob Hobbs," Will confessed. The admission did nothing for the anxiety tightening his chest. His own agitation kept him pacing around Hannibal's desk, staying in his orbit. 

The phrasing caught Hannibal's attention. The older man gave the slightest shift, but Will was Will. He'd always been good at reading people. He didn't have Hannibal's usual gift with empathy when his forts were up and the person was alive, but he'd still made a name for himself on the force with his gifts of observation.

Several names, actually. Most of them unpleasant and not repeatable in polite company.

"I had thought the spirits of the dead not prone to lingering," Hannibal replied, his neutral tone anywhere from encouraging an explanation to tactfully doubtful.

"You read my papers," Will surmised, gaze flicking to Hannibal's tie and away again.

"In them, you were quite certain that people do not last more than three days after their death," replied the psychiatrist by way of agreement. 

"That is..." Will hesitated, steps pausing with his words. _Proceed with caution._ "Usually, that's true."

"But you have seen exceptions?"

"One, but that one's a rare case. Unprecedented." Will continued to walk as though the movement could distance himself from this subject.

"And now Hobbs," Hannibal mused, and Will felt the man's attention follow him. "You are quite certain that he was there?"

The question was ice-water down his spine. Will shivered, head shaking jerkily. He found his orbit tightening and he ended it, leaning against the man's desk. Within touching distance. He thought he might be seeking comfort in the proximity, but that was absurd. He'd been on his own too long to need anyone else's help now. "He... it's different than the other time. He talks to me. Gives advice," Will ground out, lip twitching in an aborted snarl. He held onto the edge of Hannibal's desk when he felt the urge to touch his gun for reassurance. Releasing the desk, he shoved his hands into his pockets and curled his fingers around Winston's frayed rope instead. Even with his shields up the contact calmed him.

If Garrett was real, he was probably watching Will even now. The sense that Winston was keeping an eye on him as well helped to balance that. 

"Will." Hannibal's expression twisted, the barest twinge. Will's eyes darted up, tracking the changes and trying to categorize them. Faint concern was evident along with the sense that the doctor was trying to be tactful about a sensitive subject. "You have been under quite a bit of stress. Do you accept the possibility that you are not seeing the real Hobbs, but merely a representation of him? This could be a reaction of a weary mind to an unacknowledged sense of guilt."

"Guilt... over Hobbs?" Will hazarded. He tilted his head up, focused on the lock of hair falling rakishly into Hannibal's eyes without quite meeting them. "I don't feel guilty for killing Hobbs." He risked a quick peek at Hannibal's eyes. "Do you really think this is that simple? That he could just be in my head?" It was tempting to believe. A hallucination could be fixed, maybe, with rest or the right medication. He was wary of the idea, though. Hannibal was an empath but he wasn't an ectomancer. Lacking Will's experience, he might just be trying to fit Will's problems into a context he could understand. It wouldn't be the first time that had happened to Will.

"I believe we should be open to the possibility," Hannibal corrected. "Your gift with the dead does not preclude your body's natural need for rest after a traumatic event. There is always the chance that the altercation with Hobbs has caused some damage to your forts," he added, and Will hadn't thought of that. "Perhaps the situation will resolve itself."

\--

Will was dreaming again.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep. He only knew he was asleep now because he was pretty sure the hospital didn't usually have a stag wandering through it. 

The stag's hooves rang in the hallway and he looked around the room to see if anyone else had heard. Garrett sat at Abigail's bedside, looking up with interest but making no move to leave his daughter. Winston watched Will from his place on the floor near the couch Will had claimed for his own, tense but no longer growling.

Ignoring both of them for now, Will shrugged off the thin cotton blanket and stepped into the hallway, watching with a strange calm as the giant beast paced toward him. As the stag passed the lights in the hall went out one by one until they were in near darkness when the creature was close enough for Will to touch it.

He reached up to stroke the stag's nose. The feathers were soft beneath his hand but tiny arcs of static electricity shot between them, the shocks more intriguing than painful. He felt he should say something and only then did he become aware that a woman was already talking.

\--

He opened his eyes to see Alana sitting opposite where Hobbs had been in Will's dream. She was reading to Abigail.

For an instant, a trace of one of Hobb's memories blended into Will's. He could recall a much younger and healthier Abigail, always a daddy's girl, demanding another story before she'd relent and go to sleep. He obliged her more ofen than not; she was a good girl, and it was always important to learn. The more he taught her now the more capable she'd be when she was older. 

Will had to blink before the memory would leave him and he could still see traces of the child Abigail had been superimposed on her wan features. He hadn't worked out how to feel about these glimpses into Hobbs before the man's love had warped from wanting Abigail to succeed on her own to never wanting to be without her. 

He also hadn't quite worked out how to keep those memories from shading his own feelings toward the girl. That was one secret he didn't think he'd be divulging to Hannibal any time soon.

Right now he had to concentrate on deflecting the psychiatrist currently in the room with him. He smiled at Alana, made it sleepy and as unguarded as he could; talked about childrens' stories and kept all traces of Hobbs out of his face or words. He could feel Alana's curiosity in him and his abilities itching at his mind but he worked at being sociable. She'd helped him out when he needed it by covering his classes; the least he could do was try not to alienate yet another possible friend. 

She almost asked him about the article. She was polite about it, saying he could talk about it if he wanted. 

He didn't. It had only been a few hours since the near-miss with Stammets. He hadn't had nearly enough time to process his newfound hatred of one Freddie Lounds and her comments about his being the FBI's 'psychic bloodhound' with an 'intimate connection to the dead'. It was a well-written article, he had to give Freddie that. She'd been properly ominous when she'd warned the readers near the end that he was unstable and that Hobbs would not likely be the last death on his hands. The worst part of the entire thing wasn't losing Stammets, it was his own uncertainty that the reporter might be seeing him more clearly than he saw himself.

\--

The next morning saw Will back at the hospital as soon as he'd gotten dressed and caffeinated. When he couldn't sleep over with Abigail due to a need for things like a shower or clean clothes he made a point to stop by before his classes. 

Even coffee hadn't helped to make him alert. Convinced he would get a call at any minute about Stammets, he'd slept only briefly, waking himself again and again with the conviction that his phone had gone off.

Hiding a yawn as the elevator doors slid open on Abigail's floor, Will almost marked the buzzing of his cell as his over-active imagination. Catching it just in time, he answered with barely a glance at the ID. "Hello?"

He'd expected an update from Jack; what he hadn't bargained for was the warning that Stammets knew about Abigail and might already be there. 

The world went into hyper-focus as Will exhanged his phone for his gun and hurried to Abigail's room. _Empty._

Locking away his panic, the investigator accosted the nurse at her station. She'd only seen a doctor wheeling Abigail away and hadn't questioned it. Cursing now, Will spun away without explanation, checking the halls before heading to the stairs. Stammets wanted out; he'd be heading down. 

Hitting the bottom of the stairs, Will stepped out, glanced left, then found Stammets on his right. He aimed for the man's main body mass but sudden cold swept through his fingers and along his arms. He heard Hobbs' whisper like a memory: "It would only be murder." His shaking grip steadied; his aim altered. He fired.

\--

Hannibal's voice broke Will's reverie. He was back in the psychiatrist's office. Blinking, he refocused on the man, feeling like his vision swung around an instant after he'd moved his head. "Sorry—what?"

"Did Stammets stay where you left him?" the other man repeated, patient and steady.

Rubbing a hand over his face and trying to get the question to make sense, Will finally had to give up. "Where I left him."

"After you shot him," clarified Hannibal. "Did he follow you, as you feel that Hobbs did?"

"No." Will lingered on the word, then finally understood the intent behind the doctor's words. His mouth stretched into a semblance of a smile. "Not yet."

Hannibal shifted. "You didn't kill Stammets?"

"I... think I may have intended to. He had Abigail. It would have been so easy." Will grimaced, the words leaving a foul taste in his mind.

"Something stopped you."

Will clenched his hands, forced them to relax. He nodded. "Hobbs," he murmured. "He said it would only be murder."

"Because you would not be able to consume Stammets completely," continued Hannibal, his voice cautious but devoid of judgement. 

Will dropped his head, eyes closing. Hannibal spoke again, tone stern. "You have not been taking care of yourself. When was the last time you had proper sleep?"

"You still think I'm seeing Hobbs because I need a little sleep?" Will drawled. 

"Sleep deprivation has been known to cause hallucinations. If you insist on pushing yourself, your body will push back."

That made more sense than Will was comfortable hearing. He dragged his eyelids open and simply stared at Hannibal. "I can't remember when I slept. I had a nap two days ago, in Abigail's room. Before that..." Will shook his head. 

"That settles it." Standing from his desk, Hannibal stepped closer to Will. The investigator swayed at his approach, eyelids fluttering closed again at the energy swirling over him. "You will go home and sleep for the rest of the night. Doctor's orders," Hannibal asserted, just enough humor inserted into the command to keep Will's hackles from rising. 

"How will you know if I don't follow them?" Will replied, just to be contrary.

"I'll know." The certainty in it brought Will's attention back to him, but the man was impossible to read. Will believed him. 

\--

Will was in a forest he'd never seen. It had an archetypal quality; the trunks were enormous, and the tops of the trees were so far away they seemed obscured in the clouds. He looked down, thought of great roots twining together like tendrils of mycelium. 

A dark piece of the woods broke free and resolved itself into Hannibal. 

Unsurprised, Will nodded to him, then returned his gaze to the branches above. "It's beautiful here. Isolated."

Firm hands slid over his shoulders and heat seeped into Will. "Is it?"

Will let himself relax fully, tilting his head back and sighing as his awareness spread out around them, water released from its cup. Hannibal was a force of life at his back, flames licking over him, but Will only laughed. He felt Winston, saw the bands of cold light connecting them now until they were only parts of a whole. Hobbs was near as well, and weaker bonds connected him to both of them. 

Out into the woods his influence spilled. It was like when he ran with his strays but only in the way a lamp was similar to the sun. He stretched into the woods, and felt that he would never stop unfolding.

\--

So yeah, that ending is a little esoteric. Oh well! Comments are lovely and much appreciated, and thank you for anyone who reads this even after the long wait!


	6. Paralyzer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail wakes up and gets to visit an old friend in her father's cabin. Will and Hannibal bond over an unexpected activity.

This took me almost a year to write. I'm so sorry! I had it mostly done but then went back to school and then... well, life happened. Also Skyrim. I'll work on it more! Note: I also edited the previous chapters and will post those edits now. There's nothing extensive, just a few word rearrangements or spacing errors getting fixed. Thank you all for anyone who reads this after I took so gorram long!

\--

_I'm not paralyzed but I seem to be struck by you  
I want to make you move because you're standing still_

 

Morning sun and an unknown car greeted Will when he took the dogs out. It had been more than a week since Stammets had tried to plant Abigail to let Will know her. Hannibal had helped to fund Abigail's move to the Port Haven Psychiatric Facility, sharing Will's lack of faith in the security of her original care center.

Seeing Alana in his driveway froze Will in his steps, his mind—never that optimistic to begin with—immediately fearing the worst. Alana didn't ease his concerns, waiting until he turned to find clothes before telling him that Abigail was awake. 

That was honestly the sort of thing he'd have preferred to know up front, but Alana had other ideas. Ideas about waiting, about not being the first one Abigail would see. 

Waiting was not something that Will suffered with grace. He agreed, in large part because Alana had the power to take Will off the list of Abigail's allowed visitors, but he did not enjoy it.

The morning and afternoon passed at a crawl that had him agitated and unsettled while he waited for Alana's decision. Knowing that she was talking with his daughter—with _Abigail_ , he corrected himself—churned a protective jealousy in his gut that was unfamiliar to him. 

He made an effort to keep up appearances despite this. The last thing he wanted was Alana to declare him too unstable to see Abigail in her no-doubt fragile state. 

He dressed like normal, went to his early afternoon class like normal, took pains to not glare and snap. He changed his planned lecture, instead talking about Hobbs and the eight girls he'd killed, ending with the ninth victim, Cassie Boyle, killed by a different man. He spun theories and asked questions, never mentioning that he was haunted still by Hobbs or that he'd asked the man himself about who had called him that day and Hobbs had only shrugged.

A rush of warmth and one of force preceded Hannibal and Jack into Will's classroom. Will chose to focus on Hannibal, daring to meet his eyes briefly with the shadows around the men to ease the contact. 

Will wrapped up his lecture with a few words about the morbid beauty of the scene in the field when viewed on camera contrasting with the stark horror of her missing soul. He instructed the class to look into the mythology and philosophy behind soul-eaters and that they bring any ideas they might come up with to the next class.

\--

Hannibal and Will didn't speak much on the drive. Will had had a few meetings with the man since he shot Stammets and dreamed of Hannibal in the woods.

That morning he'd woken up and had called Hannibal without preamble. The psychiatrist had answered, voice lacking the blur of an unexpected awakening. Will had demanded to know if one of the talents Hannibal denied having involved walking into the dreams of his patients. "My dreams have always been my own affair," the doctor had quipped. "Is the same true for yourself?"

Blaming Hannibal would have been easier, but Will tried not to lie to himself when he could help it. "My forts lack fortitude when I sleep," he'd admitted. "I've gotten visitors in my dreams before. You're the first living one."

"Perhaps you were thinking of me," Hannibal had suggested. Will's silence, when he tried desperately to think of some better reason, had drawn a soft noise from Hannibal that Will strongly suspected to be a laugh. Will hadn't blushed since high school but he felt his face heat then, as he rubbed his hair and wished for whiskey.

His dreams had stayed where they were meant to for the last week. There was a tension between himself and the doctor now, but it was a human tension that had everything to do with life. 

It was so reassuring that Will was strangely reluctant to push on to the next step in he and Hannibal's relationship. For the moment, he was content to watch out the window of the car, the blaze of Hannibal's presence lulling him like summer sunshine and giving him the first measure of peace he'd had since Alana arrived on his doorstep that morning.

\--

The psychiatric facility was a definite cut above the hospital where Abigail had stayed before. Instead of sterile white the entire place had the feel of a bed and breakfast, albeit one with stern, watchful nurses and orderlies waiting in the wings. Appreciating having Hannibal with him as much as he resented the need, Will squared his shoulders and opened Abigail's door.

A riot of red curls and a leopard print skirt were stark against the powder blues and pastel pinks of the walls. Will caught the end of the woman's sentence: "He catches killers because, like them, he prefers the dead to the living. He relates to them more easily when they've been killed." Smoothly, she stood and turned to face him, showing him a pale face and blue eyes that turned challenging when Abigail couldn't see them. He needed no introduction to know her. After her article on him had nearly cost them Stammets Will had checked over Freddie Lounds' site, finding it to be the internet's equivalent of a garbage can.

Looking past the reporter, Will greeted Abigail. "Special Agent Will Graham." It felt odd, introducing himself to the girl he'd been watching over. Stranger, with the memories he'd picked up from Hobbs. "This is Hannibal Lecter."

"He isn't really an agent. The world isn't ready for a Federal psychic," Freddie inserted smoothly. There was no mockery in her voice despite her words. For what it was worth, Freddie believed in Will's powers; Will thought that was more to do with most of _TattleCrimes_ ' advertisement funding coming from pay-by-the-minute psychics than any great faith in the world beyond. 

The redhead held out a card to Abigail. Without thinking about it, Will snatched the card from her hand and tucked it into his pocket. Unease flickered over Freddie at his proximity and he couldn't tell if the fear was staged or real. 

Right now he could handle her being afraid of him as long as it encouraged her to leave. At an unsubtle suggestion from Hannibal she slipped out, pausing long enough to nod significantly at Abigail. 

When they were alone, Will slid his glasses off, meeting Abigail's eyes. It was hard for him; he blinked more often than he wanted to, his defenses trying to break the unnatural contact. Still, this was important. 

Abigail sat, back straight and hands clasped in her lap. She met Will's eyes with only a flicker of a glance at Hannibal. "I remember you." Despite her trauma, her tone was even, her guarded face betraying nothing. "You killed my dad."

Will's gaze faltered, eyes blinking closed, and he studied the hospital bracelet at her wrist as he searched for a reply. Those few words had slashed to pieces the conversation he'd been carefully constructing in his head all morning. Despite Hannibal's reminder that Abigail had never spoken to Will, it was hard for him to reconcile the way she stared at him with so little recognition. 

"And what are you?" Abigail's voice had a demand in it, and the echo of his own question to Hannibal when they'd first met drew Will up short. He brought his gaze back to Abigail's face sharply, only to see her watching Hannibal with determined intensity. Will wondered if she was more sensitive than he'd assumed. Hobbs, as far as he could tell, hadn't had any sort of psychic talent. He wouldn't have necessarily been able to recognize it in his daughter. If she was feeling Hannibal's energy now... Then again, she might just be justifiably curious about the man who'd saved her life.

"A simple psychiatrist," Hannibal replied, a smile hidden in his voice that didn't reflect on his features. Will flitted a glance at Hannibal and the doctor lowered his chin minutely without meeting Will's eyes. He had noticed Abigail's reaction as well. "And, for your health, I must suggest a walk. You have been kept here for too long." 

When Will and Hannibal had entered, Will had seen Abigail's breathing change, the shorter breaths the only outward sign of her distress. Her right cheek flinched, now, but her hands remained still in her lap and she only nodded.

~*~

Abigail entered the atrium on Will's arm, Hannibal close behind in case she stumbled. She walked weakly and slowly, but it still did Will good to see her moving. It helped him to believe that she was really awake now and this wasn't all some elaborate dream.

There was a fluttering anxiety to her that concerned Will. She had enough to be upset with that he couldn't intuit the source until she spoke, softly, just as they were reaching the bench. "You talk with the dead. Did my father... did he speak to you?"

Of course. Will dipped his head in the slightest of nods. He should have anticipated this. Just because he'd come to terms with keeping her secrets didn't mean that Abigail had any idea that he knew them. She might just be holding herself up with the hope that Hobbs hadn't told Will enough to let the police arrest her. She was intelligent enough to be worried that he and Hannibal were only waiting for her to entrap herself and admit to something she shouldn't know.

He was silent as he helped to settle her onto the bench, framing the words to reassure her without alerting Hannibal. Given the storm that he was certain his emotions had gone through, he wasn't sure how much good it would do against the empath at his side, but he would try. "You shouldn't worry about what he said. Whatever was wrong with him isn't wrong with you," he stressed. "You didn't kill those girls."

Abigail's lips tightened against a tremble and she looked away. "I may as well have. If he'd just killed me they would still be alive." She took a breath, straightened her spine and looked up again. "What does it feel like? Killing someone."

Will's mind flashed to the bullets hitting Hobbs, the rush of terror and elated power that was gone so quickly he had barely registered it at the time, too caught up in the immediacy of the events. After that it was Abigail's blood on his hands and then the freezing flood of Hobbs' essence attacking his own.

Wrenching back to the present, Will didn't look at Hannibal, feeling the psychiatrist's interested gaze like a brand. He rolled his shoulders to shrug it away. "It's the worst thing in the world," he lied.

"Worse than talking to dead people?" Abigail countered.

A smile threatened Will's lips. "Freddie wasn't lying about that part. I don't mind talking to the dead."

"Is he..." Not knowing how Will's powers worked, Abigail's gaze darted around the windowed room and she held herself still. "Is he here now?"

"Most spirits only have the strength to last a few hours. Three days at the most," he evaded. The last thing he wanted was for Abigail to realize that Hobbs probably was watching them both. 

Abigail nodded, choosing not to ask what Will meant by 'most'. Instead, she said only that she wanted to go home.

~*~

Taking Abigail home again wasn't the ordeal that Will had been afraid of. All things considered, she remained calmly in control of herself, even when faced with the tasteless graffiti on her garage door and the kitchen where Hobbs had nearly killed her.

Will slept that night with a cautious optimism, even when a nightmare had him killing Abigail in Hobbs' place while the feathered stag looked on. 

By now, he'd made the connection of the stag to Hannibal. He woke with his thoughts jumbled, torn between discomfort at the psychiatrist having seen that side of Will's mind and the reassurance that came with knowing he hadn't been alone in his head for once when something really horrible happened.

It wasn't the sort of thing that he should encourage, but for now, at least, he could keep up the pretense that his power was seeking out Hannibal's on its own.

Hannibal met him in the morning with a rental car and hot coffee, and Will decided there were worse people for his subconscious to stalk. 

The cabin in the woods was the same as the first time Will had seen it. Tensing as the old death layered around the cabin sent a familiar tingle up his legs, Will closed the passenger side door, following Abigail inside once the crime scene tape on the doorway was removed by one of the local officers. 

Everything inside was shiny, wiped down to an immaculate sheen. Abigail repeated as much, fear making her voice waver, and Will kept his face as still as possible even as sympathy, guilt and self-loathing roiled in him.

Abigail had helped Hobbs. Without her help, eight girls might still be alive. Still, Will had to resist going to her, putting a hand on her shoulder. 

Hannibal spoke to confirm that yes, her father had probably been feeding his victims to his wife and daughter—and, having forgotten the empath was still there, Will cut a nervous glance at the man. Hannibal was standing back near the doorway, watching Will, Alana and Abigail like they were players on a stage.

When Will turned back to Abigail, it was to see her cut herself off as fresh blood dripped from the ceiling to slide down her forehead. Puzzled, she wiped at it with one hand, trying to reconcile the crimson with something her mind didn't want her to see.

Will didn't have that option. He hadn't felt anything. _Anything_.

Terror uncoiled in his gut as he lowered his forts and pulled out his gun, advancing on the stairway with caution. The old energy of dead deer and eight young women still lingered after their spirits had moved on. Death had soaked into the floor and walls of the cabin so that, when looked at half-seen through the veil of the living world, shadows moved always at the edge of his mind's eye and snippets of sound that hadn't been heard in months echoed up and down the stairs. He clenched his jaw against the urge to silence them.

With luck, whoever or whatever was bleeding was still alive, still dying. Will's instincts told him he wasn't that lucky.

Garrett Jacob Hobbs preceded Will up the stairs. Winston stayed at Will's side, and the dog's flattened ears and hunched walk confirmed Will's fear. 

Will's last step from the stairs broke him into a full trance, the pendulum in his mind finishing its fall. The walls had gone dim but the antlers were still there; there was nothing where a body should be. Nothing but a sick feeling that crept into Will's limbs and stayed there as he eased back to a point where he could see the world around him once more.

As he'd been afraid off, a body hung on the antlers across from him. Even though it was a false comfort, Will wanted to keep his gun in his hands. The revolver was cold, strength seeming to seep into him from the grip along with the bracing nod Garrett sent him.

Swallowing bile, Will holstered the gun, missing its grip immediately. The gun was traded for his phone as he put in a call for an ERT, pocketing the cell and pulling out a cloth to lift the girl's head without contaminating the scene—and, if he was honest with himself, because touching the soul-eaten flesh might have been enough to make him black out. It was hard enough to advance across the room, Winston faintly seen and felt at his side. The dog's spirit was hunkered low, creeping along only because he didn't want to leave Will's side.

Abigail screamed behind them. Will looked over at her without startling; all of his concentration was on not following the girl's example and fleeing while he let a scream of his own—the one fluttered in his throat, trapped behind his tongue. Garrett, who'd studied Marissa's corpse with mild unease, whirled after his daughter. Will noted in a shocky, distant way that the spirit seemed more solid now, the antlers barely visible through him.

Hannibal appeared on the stairs, the life of him rushing over Will like a wave of electricity and weakening his knees. He dropped Marissa's head down, not wanting to risk leaning on the evidence—not wanting to risk touching the soulless mockery of her corpse. 

Will had never been accused of cowardice. He'd run from the first body, but he couldn't leave now. Whoever had eaten Cassie Boyle was still around, and there was no way this death was random. Swallowing a shallow breath, Will nodded to Hannibal half-heartedly and got out a fresh set of blue gloves. 

~*~ 

Jack was a roil of frustration, spilling up the stairs and setting Will's teeth on edge. He did his best to ignore the man, looking into Marissa's teeth at the bit of flesh caught there. Nothing useful—nothing the crime scene techs or the science team wouldn't have found instantly. He discussed the possibility of the flesh belonging to Nicholas Boyle with Hannibal, but the angry young man from Abigail's house hadn't struck Will as a soul-eating killer. For one thing, Cassie's body in the field had been displayed too elegantly; nothing about the brash man who'd thrown a rock at them while trespassing fit with that profile. 

Using all of his concentration just to make himself stand near Marissa's body, Will didn't have much attention left for Jack or his accusations. 

"You bring Abigail back, and the next day we have another body," Jack began by way of a greeting.

Will spoke absently, voice certain. "This wasn't Abigail's doing. She's like Cassie Boyle, Jack."

"I can see that," Jack snapped. "The similarity has not escaped me. Doesn't mean the copycat didn't get a little help from Abigail Hobbs."

"They didn't." Will spoke on the very tail of Jack's words, nearly an interruption, and Jack's eyes narrowed. Will felt the anger in the man's gaze shift up a notch and focus on Will as an easy target. Setting his shoulders and trying to focus on the body, Will still didn't look at him. 

"Nicholas Boyle might have killed her," Hannibal inserted smoothly. Will appreciated his attempt to draw away Jack's attention, but it worked as badly as Will would have predicted. 

"Might have. That all you got from her ghost?" Jack demanded, voice coaxing now, the question as reassuring as a man in the ring helping his opponent up so he could get the right angle for a solid right hook. 

"There is no ghost," Will replied, voice as blank as his mind. He was exhausted; even at his best he didn't think he'd have been able to handle this well, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd slept for a solid night and every one of his instincts was urging him to get away from the impossibility of Marissa's empty shell. Winston had huddled into his legs and was letting out a distressed keening, not even attempting a growl at Jack's abrasiveness. 

"Isn't that convenient." Jack stepped into Will's personal space, using his size in an attempt to intimidate. Will finally dragged his eyes from Marissa to study Jack's tie, shoulders slack and knowing what was coming. "For the only forensic ectomologist in the world, you haven't been a lot of help."

At Will's side, Hannibal had angled himself toward Will, and out of the corner of his eye Will saw the man's chin lift protectively. "Agent Crawford," he warned.

Undaunted, Jack dismissed Hannibal with a glance, stepping closer to Will. "He says there's nothing to see here; I'm just making sure he isn't refusing to see it. No one else can prove that there are souls or not. Let me guess," he continued. "Your talents start slipping, or don't work out, and you just say we've got some sort of soul-eater on our hands. Want to know what I see?" he asked, almost playful. Will tensed again, too tired to fight but resenting the baiting. "I see a guy who isn't as good as he thinks he is. I see a normal copycat killer, and I see a girl who's been helping daddy for so long, maybe she got a taste for it after he died." 

Will laughed, a helpless snort of sound that startled him as much as Jack. "Something funny about that?"

Will shook his head. "I wish the world were as simple as you think it is," he told Jack. "I wish I could _not see_ everything you don't. I would sleep like a baby."

"Maybe you should take a little time to rest, then," Jack cut in. Will finally met his eyes, not immediately understanding. "Abigail needs to go home. Hannibal, if you could take them?" Only when Jack shifts his attention dismissively to Will does he drop the cloying tone and speak respectfully. Hannibal's mouth thinned, obviously disliking both what he'd just witnessed and Jack's assumption that he could force the doctor to be a chauffeur to aid in Will's punishment. He lifted his head in the barest nod, and though his expression stayed civil Will shivered as a thin current of rage leaked from Hannibal and flowed around the ectomancer. Borrowing a little of that anger to push at his own exhaustion, Will bit back a harsh reply to Jack and only turned stiffly away, snapping his gloves free as they left Jack to examine the body.

~*~

By unspoken agreement, Hannibal took Will, Abigail and Alana to Abigail's first. When they pulled up, Will stirred from his doze and stared with dull alarm at the lights and noise of the crowd gathered around the driveway. He grimaced and muttered a heart-felt curse, rubbing his hand over his eyes and stubble before meeting Hannibal's eyes and then glancing to Alana's collarbones. The three adults stepped out of the car as one, forming a blockade for Abigail as they rushied her toward her house.

They weren't careful enough. Physically blocking an overzealous reporter from crossing the line of officers, Will glanced over his shoulder in time to see a familiar head of red curls corner Abigail on the driveway. Abandoning his post, he hurried over, stepping in front of the reporter as Hannibal and Alana flanked Abigail and escorted her through the door. 

Not bothering to fight, Freddie Lounds still shouted out to Abigail over Will's shoulder—something about book rights or wanting her story. Will snorted disdainfully. "Your trash blog nearly got her killed with Stammets, and that was after you broke into the Shrike's nest and contaminated the scene of a crime. You really think she wants _you_ writing her life story?"

Freddie stared down at Will coolly and his shoulders itched with her attention. "I think she doesn't know she wants it yet, but I'll be waiting when she decides." She smirked, her too-red lips garish in the porchlight. "She just needs a little help."

Disgusted, Will alerted an officer that a reporter had broken through the line. He ignored her attempts to engage him again as he hurried to catch up to the others, already safely inside. 

He was on the stairs above Hannibal and Alana when a tremor shook him, cold energy buzzing through his veins. His breath came out short and he stumbled, catching himself on the railing. Hannibal froze as well, looking up at Will for an instant before something around the corner of the stairwell caught his attention.

Almost faster than Will could track, the psychiatrist slammed Alana into the wall, letting her drop to the stairs. Stunned, Will made an aborted grab for his gun when Abigail became visible, her eyes only on Hannibal. She was shaking, hands covered in blood and obviously in shock. 

Though he knew that that much energy could only have been from a fresh death, Will still panicked, forgetting the danger of Hannibal as he ran down the steps to meet them. Abigail jumped when she saw him and he saw his own panic mirrored in her eyes, but he only stopped in front of her, hands helplessly up as he checked her over for wounds. 

The blood wasn't hers. She was fine. Relief weakened Will again but cleared his mind enough to think around the fear that had paralyzed him. First, he looked to Hannibal, hand going back to his gun as he stepped closer to Abigail. "Alana—"

"Is fine," Hannibal replied smoothly, more abrupt than Will had ever heard him. The man appeared remarkably calm considering what was happening. "Come. We don't have much time. Abigail, whose blood is this?"

Staring down at her hands as if just noticing them, Abigail trembled, and it took her a few tries to speak. "He said I killed her," she stammered. "He attacked me. I didn't mean to," she insisted, looking up at them imploringly. "The knife..."

"Show us," Hannibal commanded. Abigail's eyes darted to Will, uncertain, but Will only moved past her down the stairs. He didn't have time yet to wonder at Hannibal's actions; right now, they only had perhaps fifteen minutes before Alana would awaken, assuming the doctor hadn't hit her harder than he thought. Will had to see what had happened before he could decide anything else.

He paused at the foot of the stairs. After the night he'd had his forts and walls were paper-thin; Nicholas Boyle hovered over his own body, occasionally flickering and reappearing nearby. He hadn't expected to die, but he'd had just enough time to process it that he might stay around a few hours more. Will didn't have time for him.

Ignoring the spirit of the recently departed, Will knelt by the cooling body, cataloguing it critically. 

"These aren't defensive wounds," Hannibal remarked, standing at Will's side and studying Nicholas in a detached way. The man had been stabbed through the chest, several times, and then gutted. The blood would have been a clue that the man was dead even without the flickering ghost or the septic stench of ruptured viscera.

"They are," Abigail insisted. "I don't even know—I was just there, and then I ran to the wall. I was trying to get away, but he followed me. I lifted my hands, but the knife..." She was shaking harder, staring down at the bloodied hunting knife. "It attacked him. I didn't do anything!" Her last words were edging toward hysterical.

Sympathy wouldn't help right now. They didn't have time for emotional outbursts. Standing beside Hannibal, Will studied Abigail intently, not afraid to meet her eyes right now. "The knife moved on its own?"

"A jury would never believe that," Hannibal observed. "You gutted him like an animal."

"What were you thinking, when the knife moved?" Will demanded. He had wondered before if she had a talent. Telekinesis was rare, but it wasn't unusual for a gift to manifest under a sudden shock in the teen years if it hadn't developed on its own in puberty. Still, Abigail was excellent at lying and manipulation; he had to know what the truth was to help her. 

"I just wanted him to stop," Abigail moaned. She caught herself, taking a breath and another, too quick, before slowing them. "What do I do? I have to go to the police. You can tell them," she pleaded. Will was proud of her then, but he wasn't sure she was right.

"The Minnesota Shrike's daughter kills a man in the first recorded use of psychic powers as a murder weapon," Hannibal mused. "I believe I saw Freddie Lounds outside; that will make quite the book for you to write from your cell."

"You're not helping," Will snapped at Hannibal, who only arched an eyebrow, unrepentant. Will couldn't tell if the man was exasperated with the mess or entertained. He rubbed his face, wishing he'd had sleep before dealing with this. 

Hannibal was right. There was no way a jury of her peers would try Abigail fairly, even without the telekinesis angle. Add in psychic murder and the fear factor would go off the scale. Even if they didn't believe her the jury might lock her up just to keep her off the streets. Will's work to get psychics integrated into society would be damaged, possibly irreperably. 

All because Nicholas Boyle had to terrify a woman who was less defenseless than he thought. 

Irritation was overshadowing Will's terror for Abigail. He had had too many terrible things happen in too short a time, and he was done.

Dropping his hands, he met Hannibal's eyes. "We can take the body to the rental car. We'll wrap it first. The mess shouldn't take much to clean up. Leave some of the blood, maybe make it a trail..."

"Make it seem he escaped," Hannibal finished immediately, eyes lighting with interest—and, Will thought, an entirely inappropriate attraction, if he wasn't reading the man incorrectly. Will didn't have time for _that_ , either, though his cheeks heated like a teenager's and the swirl of embarrassed satisfaction he felt drew a smirk from the older empath. "That would solve the problem of Alana as well." At least his talk was still business; he didn't think Abigail would handle them flirting right now, all things considered. 

Will nodded, already heading to the kitchen. Without thinking, he grabbed the garbage bags and Saran Wrap from the cupboard to the side of the sink, along with two pairs of rubber gloves from beneath it, opening the doors with his hand covered by his shirt. Abigail was already bloody so there wasn't much to be done about that, but they didn't need to be leaving fingerprints in odd places or having he or Hannibal getting dirty. At least they didn't have to clean up all of the blood; that would have taken longer on a wood floor than he felt comfortable with.

He met Abigail in the hall, where she'd stood to help him find the supplies. Motioning her back to the body, he knelt outside of the blood and looked to Hannibal. Hannibal smiled, the expression impish and open. That cinched it—he really was having fun. The realization helped Will keep his voice stern. "You don't just get to stand there. If you're helping, you grab the feet; we'll roll him onto the garbage bags first." He didn't think the Saran Wrap would work as well on a bloodied corpse, though he was improvising. Tossing Hannibal the yellow gloves and pulling his own on, he rolled a few garbage bags out and, careful of slipping in the blood, the two men and Abigail levered the corpse onto the bags. Will resolutely ignored Nicholas' ghost, who occasionally gained enough coherency to shout at him or curse. When the ghost took to insulting Abigail, though, Will spared it a glare. "Shut up."

Hannibal followed his gaze and looked thoughtful; Abigail paled. "He's still here?"

"In a manner of speaking," Will hedged. "He's not very coherent. Mostly just annoying." 

"So not much different than he was in life," Hannibal murmured. Will coughed to pretend he wasn't laughing, refusing to honor Hannibal with a smile. The older man had been singularly frustrating, treating the clean-up like it was a family picnic and shouldn't stop anyone from joking or ill-timed attempts at flirtation. 

Once on the bags, it wasn't that difficult to wrap the corpse, mummy-like, in clear plastic. A few pieces of tape held the garbage bag somewhat closed. Luckily, Nicholas made for a lanky corpse, though he was tall enough to take more wrap than Will had expected. He leaned back and eyed the lumpy, shiny bundle. "Shit, maybe we should have cut it in half first."

"We don't have the right tools," Hannibal remarked. "In any case, it would be quite a lot of blood, and would require more time than we have."

Will tilted his head, accepting that. Abigail looked between them. "How can you two be so calm about this?"

Will shook his head, not really wanting to analyze it yet himself. "Right now, we need to get him to the car. We'll deal with the police, tell them there was an attack, then take care of the body later. The wrap should keep the smell in tight for at least that long."

"We're calling the police? With the body here?" Abigail asked, obviously even more worried about their sanity now. 

"We work with what we have," Will remarked gruffly. He looked to Hannibal. "Can you handle getting him to the car? I can take care of the blood."

Nodding, pleased, Hannibal lifted the bundle in a fireman's carry, making it seem deceptively light. Will didn't praise him, instead gathering some of the blood in a business-like way into his gloves, scattering droplets with a critical eye for realism. He'd seen enough crime scenes in his life to manage without much difficulty. Some was smeared onto the doorway leading out into the darkness for good measure. After he'd finished, Hannibal took the gloves, wrapped into another garbage bag, and headed to the car after Will had pulled it closer.

Some cold tap water quickly took a stray few drops of blood from the hem of Will's shirt, small enough areas that the damp spots would be less noticeable than the blood would have been. 

After that, Will, Hannibal and Abigail took their places, called the police, and let their charade unfold.

\---

Chapter title and lyrics are from Paralyzer by Finger Eleven. It's one of my favorite music videos. Chapter is dedicated to my sister, for being awesome.


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